


Amalgamation

by emmish



Series: Moonstruck [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Domestic, Edging, Engagement, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gentleman's Relish, Honey and Gravel, Horny Sherlock, Humour, John's Scar, Keith the Skunk, Love, Love Bites, M/M, Marriage, Massage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pets, Rimming, Romance, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Smut, Teasing, Top Sherlock, Wedding Planning, so much sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmish/pseuds/emmish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*SEQUEL to 'Moonstruck'* - I recommend you read that first to get all the references, not least of all 'Keith' ;) John/Lock established relationship - love, lust, smut, fluff, a pet skunk, marriage and charming silliness!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Sh-Sherlock, _stop_ …”

The dark-haired detective, clad in only his underwear, chuckled from his position straddling his doctor. He grinned his crinkly grin, bumped his hips playfully, and then continued chewing softly on John’s neck.

Grimy, high-summer London sun seeped through the open window, the bedroom delightfully warm, with dust motes floating in random circuits through the room’s dense morning heat. The air was redolent with the heady scent of arousal, mixed with the exhaust fumes and next door’s cooked breakfasts from the street outside. Sherlock moved his mouth to John’s, nipping teasingly at his bottom lip.

“ _Stop_ …I can’t…”

“John, shut up and put your tongue in my mouth.”

John growled and wriggled, decisively shoving his detective off of him, causing Sherlock to bounce heavily on the bed beside him with a frustrated, baritone mewl.

“Not while he’s watching us, I _can’t_ , it’s…weird!” John complained, glancing down at his own barely-clad body self-consciously, then at the skunk who sat on the dressing table ten feet away, his beady dark eyes fixed expressionlessly on the couple on the bed.

“I _want_ to have sex with you,” Sherlock mumbled in a dark voice, clambering to mount John once more. The doctor let out a small, struggled exhale from the sudden and considerable weight of Sherlock’s whole body settling on him, before the brunette started gnawing on his bare collarbone.

“Sherlock…can’t you… _ugh_ …” John cut off his sentence with a sharp groan as his detective palmed him encouragingly through his boxers.

“Ignore him,” Sherlock growled, as he began soothing John with suckling kisses on his jaw.

“NO! _Stop_ it, get him out of here first.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re making this very hard, you know.”

“……I can see that,” the doctor responded with a knowing smirk, extending one hand to gently grope the brunette’s unmistakably, impressively tented underwear.

He was treated to a ‘ _Really, John_?’ expression in response to his his pun, before Sherlock pulled back and knelt uncertainly beside his partner.

“Just…stick him somewhere else for two minutes,” John instructed impatiently.

Sherlock cocked a dubious eyebrow. “ _Two_ minutes?”

“Well, we both know you never last very long,” the doctor joked, grinning.

Sherlock glared at him, frowning deeply, trying to work out whether that was an insult or not. He made his decision three seconds later, standing with a distinct air of injured irritability, and promptly gathered Keith up in his arms before stalking from the room.

He deposited their pet in the living room, checking he had enough food and water, and then returned to the bedroom with a sulky, belligerent expression on his pale face. Closing the door, he gave his doctor a piercing stare.

“That was rude, John,” he announced in a dangerously low voice.

“Come on, you wouldn’t know rudeness if it smacked you in the face. Besides, you know I’m right,” John teased, as he slowly pulled off his own underwear and lay back with a teasing grin. Sherlock was going to take him, and John liked it rough, therefore an angry Sherlock was entirely conducive to his needs.

The detective’s eyes sped very briefly over his doctor’s naked body, pupils dilating and eyelids flickering slightly, before he cleared his throat and spoke in a deep voice made of honey and gravel.

“You are in so much trouble, Doctor.”

 

* * *

 

 

Just over an hour later, John made yet another desperate attempt to touch himself, laying on his back, Sherlock moving tortuously slowly inside him and rolling his slim white hips with cruel languidness.

The doctor’s thighs were sticky from multiple re-applications of lube, his throat was painfully dry and his breaths shallow, and the anguished frown he wore from being refused an orgasm repeatedly was birthing a headache. His features were wet with perspiration, his skin displayed a dark pink bloom of over-worked and unsatisfied exertion.

“Ah ah, I’ve told you before,” the detective reprimanded breathlessly, batting John’s damp left hand away from his untouched shaft, and pushing it back against the sheets by John’s head, mirroring its partner. He gave it a brief, affectionate squeeze, rolling his thumb over the ring on his finger.

Sherlock swallowed hard, swaying just slightly, as he fixed his hazy gaze on his doctor, who looked wrecked. A drop of sweat from Sherlock’s saturated dark hair fell onto his doctor’s flushed and over-heated chest, and John flinched, licking his lips.

“Still think I’m too quick?” Sherlock gasped, grinning fiendishly, and giving a short, sharp buck into his doctor.

“Sh… _Sherlock_ , please let me…I can’t…” John managed in a croaky voice, eyes closed, his soaked ash-brown hair now the colour of wet sand. There was an audible scrape as the doctors’ fingernails raked into the sheets. The detective could see the faint, frantic pulse in the veins of John’s knuckles, and it thrilled him.

Sherlock paused his excruciatingly slow movements, rolled his eyes in an expression of mock thoughtfulness, and then replied throatily, “Uummm…No.”

John strangled out a tortured whine and tried to shove himself against Sherlock for some relief, for any kind of friction, his damp, forcible hips causing the knackered mattress to squeak loudly.

Sherlock sat back slightly, preventing this action from coming to any kind of satisfactory fruition, his own arms and thighs trembling visibly, and looked down at his doctor, enraptured. John was desperate, his shaft dark and wet and painfully engorged, his thighs twitching jerkily either side of Sherlock’s waist.

“ _Beautiful_ , John. Give…give me my phone,” Sherlock panted.

John blinked dizzily, groaning in disbelief. “ _What_?”

“Phone. Give. Now.”

John extended one shaking, slippery hand to the phone on the table, and handed it to his detective.

Licking his cupid’s-bow lips indulgently, Sherlock took a photo of John, then bit his lip at seeing the resulting image.

“Beautiful,” he repeated.

“Sherlock, _please_ …I _have_ to…please,” John seethed, brow crinkled in pain.

Sherlock eyed him hungrily, more than ready for his own release at this point. “You ready?”

The doctor swallowed thickly and nodded, exhaling sharply.

“Hold on tight,” he murmured, guiding John’s left hand to finally take hold of himself. The doctor complied eagerly, sobbing in relief as he began to frantically fist his shaft, head tilting back sharply and tendons standing out on his deeply-flushed throat, a delicious bead of sweat resting between his collarbones.

Sherlock grinned wolfishly, leant down to lap up the tempting hot droplet, and then gritted his teeth as he pulled back, re-adjusted his wet hands underneath John’s hips, and began to pound into his doctor as violently as he could, the headboard banging deafeningly against the wall, mattress screeching. With a feral growl of effort, Sherlock increased his pace, the sharp smack of wet skin on skin maddeningly glorious and deafening.

Watching John fist himself madly, his hand a slick, wet blur, Sherlock began to chant with every thrust as his own orgasm surged threateningly.

“Come _…_ come…come… _John…come, please…it’s time…”_

With a few strangled, high-pitched gasps, John’s jaw tightened, his face contorted into a visage of agony, and he arched violently as he came, his expression like that of a demon being exorcised, his resulting yell unholy.

Sherlock bared his teeth in a viciously triumphant grin at taking on the challenge on holding on to John’s wildly struggling, heavy, wet hips, his ears ringing with his doctor’s coarse, unrestrained sobs as his orgasms’ aftershocks throbbed through him. Forcing his fingernails deeply into John’s backside, he threw his head back, forcing out a piercing shout as he climaxed, followed instantly by a loud, wheezy laugh of delight as he rocked out his peak inside his doctor, shivering with pleasure as John finally stilled and gasped beneath him.

“Oh, John…oh, _FUCK_!” Sherlock exclaimed deliriously, licking his plump lips and rocking away the tremulous last waves of his orgasm, blinking sweat from his eyes, and finally easing the last little thrusts of his aching hips.

The detective let out a massive, gusty exhale as he pulled out gently, eyeing John appreciatively.

“Oh John…look what you made,” he sighed happily, swiping a long, pale finger through the large amount of semen on his doctor’s stomach, taking a swift taste, and then groaning in pleasure at seeing it in John’s soaked hair and on his cheek and chin as well.

John was shattered, heaving for breath, and lay prone, unaware of his own ejaculate on his face and ruined hair. He let Sherlock lean over him, reeking of sweat and heat and sex, feeling the detective kiss and suck at his scalp and jaw hungrily. The doctor could feel his own thighs and stomach quivering faintly with exertion, and he let out an immense, shaky sigh.

His detective settled his hot, heavy, wet weight upon him, and kissed him hard on the mouth, their tongues swiftly mating, quick and rough and inelegant. Sherlock’s near-black, sweat-soaked curls dripped every few seconds, his flushed skin burned. John pulled back briefly.

“ _Oh_ …S-“ John choked a little, then coughed, swallowed and tried again. “Sherl…you are _amazing_.”

When Sherlock grinned and seized his mouth again and let out a happy little hum, he translated the response as, ‘I know.’

When the exhausted post-coital snogging ended a minute later, Sherlock grinned down at John with exultation, his face crinkled in a huge, honest, delighted grin, his eyes bright and playful even as he was still getting his breath back, his skin still deeply flushed and wet.

“Marry me.”

“I’m already marrying you, you daft twat,” John replied fondly, mussing his detective’s wet and wilted curls.

Sherlock grinned wider, then groaned pleasurably, and promptly collapsed onto his doctor, sighing languorously and practically steaming with exertion.

“Sherl…get off me,” John laughed breathlessly, stroking Sherlock’s still-pulsing biceps. “Besides, you can’t sleep now, it’s only 11am.”

“…Can sleep if I want,” came the muffled mumble.

“At least move then, you great lump,” John chuckled.

Sherlock rolled off of his doctor obediently, eyes lightly closed, his damp body limp, and a silly smile on his sculptured face.

John stood up on fiercely protesting legs, and groaned, heading to the bedroom door in order to go and make some rejuvenating tea. He paused on the threshold to glance back at the shagged-out detective.

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s crinkly, tired smile widened and he nodded vaguely, an expression of utter bliss on his face.

John took that as ‘I love you too.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cockblocker Keith … sounds like a wrestler :P  
> The beginning of this chapter stemmed partly from my own irrational discomfort about getting undressed when one of my pets is in the same room XD  
> And yeah, sorry, that chapter was pure shagging :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - rimming ;)

 

After John had given himself a cursory wipe-down, put on his dressing gown and filled the kettle, he went to run a cold shower. Glancing through to the living room, where Keith cocked his fluffy black-and-white head curiously at him from the coffee table, he grinned conspiratorially.

"I just had the best sex ever," he whispered loudly to their pet, then giggled at the happy absurdity of it. He stretched luxuriously in the balmy, still air of the flat, before mussing his own sweat-damp and ruined hair, cringing a little.

"Sherlock!" He called through to the bedroom, hearing a faint groan in response. "We need a shower, come on, get up."

A long, grumpy grumble echoed out, but in a little while Sherlock stood loosely clad in his dressing gown in the hallway before him, stretching his arms and grunting pleasurably when a few joints popped. He ushered John inelegantly toward the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him, pulled off his doctor's robe, then his own, and leant heavily on him, mumbling into his ear.

"Love you."

"I know, Sherl. Come on," he insisted gently, before pulling the still-recovering detective under the delightfully cool, refreshing water.

* * *

Ten minutes later, John sipped tea in his armchair, his wet, ash-brown hair sweetly spiked, absently watching the TV, waiting for Bargain Hunt to start. Sherlock sprawled on the full length of the sofa, staring at his phone with an intense look in his eyes, and occasionally flicking a piercing gaze toward his doctor. His glossy, near-black curls were starting to frizz slightly as they dried, and the sharp, sweet smell of their tea tree shampoo permeated the cosily-cluttered room.

A pleasurable, cooling breeze was starting to pick up and invited itself through the open living room window, stirring the previously languid heat. Keith was quietly nibbling on some leftover chicken on the kitchen counter, his luscious tail wafting happily with every few mouthfuls.

"I know you're watching me, Sherl," John commented mildly without taking his eyes from BBC1, and turning the volume up a little with the remote, before putting his tea down and re-adjusting his loose dressing-gown ties absently.

The brunette licked his plump lips briefly and grinned, holding up his phone and grunting insistently to get John's attention. The doctor glanced at the image on the screen and sighed irritably at the sight of himself, prone and desperate in bed, from a little while earlier. "Is it too much to ask for you to delete that?"

"Yes. Obviously. This is visual gold."

"Thought as much." He went back to watching the TV screen for a few seconds, and then frowned. "…Hang on…have you been staring at that picture for the last ten minutes?"

"Yes. It's very…stimulating."

John glanced at Sherlock's hardened crotch under his silky blue dressing gown and boxers and rolled his eyes. " _You_ might have a refractory period of about 2 seconds, but I don't, and I definitely cannot manage anything right now. I'm knackered."

"I can wait," Sherlock murmured darkly, going back to wriggle against the cushions and analyse the photo.

There were a few minutes of pleasant quiet, the London-tasting breeze cooling the room with intermittent gusts, the TV humming away.

"…I was thinking," John offered hesitantly, "…did you want to…talk about planning? I mean…you can't just summon a wedding out of thin air."

Sherlock's eyes flickered distantly as if he was considering the physics involved with conjuring anything out of thin air, then focussed again. "Dull. Let Mrs. Hudson do it."

John scoffed indignantly. "She's our landlady, Sherl, not your mother."

"She might as well be."

The doctor let out a long-suffering sigh, about to reply when Sherlock waved a careless hand in the air, a distasteful expression on his pale, angular face. "Can't we just do it online or something?" He appeared serious.

Chewing the inside of his mouth and counting to five, John replied calmly. "You can't do _everything_ online. Why did you ask me if you don't want some kind of ceremony? Thought you'd love having the world revolve around you for a day."

"The world revolves around me _every_ day."

Clenching his right fist, John dug his nails into his palm and took a fortifying breath. There was a faint bump behind him as Keith jumped down from the kitchen counter and ambled into the room, bouncing onto John's lap and nuzzling his face with chicken-breath and faint chirrups. The doctor stroked the surprisingly-heavy mammal, attempting to ease his rising irritation.

"You didn't think this through at all, did you?"

"Of course," Sherlock huffed. "It took me two months to find the right ring for you."

John stilled, and stared at the petulant detective who now huddled childishly on the sofa, glaring intently at his phone.

"…Sherlock, you proposed two days ago. And that was just after our anniversary…how long were you thinking about this?"

"…A while," came a small, muffled reply.

"Two months before our anniversary?"

"…Had to…get something you'd like…in case you said yes. It took a while," Sherlock mumbled, the words barely audible. "Wanted to ask on our anniversary...but…"

"…But…you chickened out?" John asked fondly, a wide smile on his face.

A faint, annoyed huff, and a long pause. "…A bit."

John chuckled warmly, setting the skunk aside before getting up and going to kneel on the floor beside the sofa, cupping Sherlock's sculptured, hard cheekbones and kissing him on the tip of his nose. Keith trotted away, out of sight, into their bedroom.

"…I love the ring. It's perfect."

Sherlock perked up a bit, meeting John's eyes and uncurling slightly from his 'sulking' position so that he lay flat on his back, head on the armrest. His cheeks were faintly pink with embarrassment, causing his icy, grey-green eyes to stand out more sharply in contrast.

"It's ivory. Whale bone. A hundred and fifty years old," he offered hopefully.

John grinned. "I figured it was bone, didn't know it was an antique. It's brilliant," he beamed, and Sherlock noticeably relaxed with a barely-audible sigh and a small, shy smile. The doctor leant down and captured Sherlock's plump lips in a hard smooch, the detective immediately pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, groaning softly as John's hand smoothed steadily down his robe-clad torso, thumbing teasingly over his nipples.

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock was unconsciously grinding his hips, his long fingers shakily grasping John's face, and ejecting short, sharp grunts of need.

"Sherl… _Sherl_!...sweetheart," John managed, finally pulling away from the detective's groping hands at his face and crotch, and from his greedy, cupid's-bow mouth. A faint whine of frustration answered him from the prone, lean, beautiful figure on the sofa.

"Sherl, I really can't…" he paused, embarrassed, "…get it up yet…but…just so you know, I…bought you something." John flushed slightly, licking his thin lips. "A present."

" _What_?" Sherlock retorted, sitting up suddenly and frowning. "Why didn't I find it? Where is it?"

The doctor giggled heartily, knowing that Sherlock would have noted any kind of gift he would have tried to smuggle secretively into the house, and that equally, he would be extremely distressed at having missed it.

"Chillax, Sherlock. It's-"

He was rudely interrupted as Sherlock stiffened as though in pain and stung him with a frigid glare, a long finger pressing abruptly against his thin lips.

Sherlock spoke evenly, though his expression was murderous. "John. Never, _ever_ use the word 'chillax' in my presence again or I will be forced to seriously hurt you."

John burst out laughing, dark blue eyes crinkling, and he nipped gently at the finger on his lips.

"Duly noted," he grinned. "I ordered it online for your birthday…but there was a problem with stock for a while…I tried again, it should be here in the next few days."

Sherlock calmed a little, before his pale eyes narrowed in contemplation. "…My birthday?"

"Yeah…they had some delivery problems, I don't know. Tomorrow, it should be here," John smiled, before getting off of his painful kneeling position on the floor by the sofa and straddling Sherlock's waist with a groan of relief as his joints eased and the detective protectively took hold of his hips, looking up at him with an odd expression.

"…My…birthday…when was that?"

John quirked his brow in utter disbelief. "Your birthday? You still don't know when your birthday is?"

"Well…I know people sometimes give me presents for no reason. In the summer. It was…recent? " Sherlock queried doubtfully.

John sighed. "How many times do I have to remind you, Sherlock?"

The detective shrugged, his thumbs rubbing lazy symbols into John's hips. "It's not important."

"It's July 19th, Sherl." He ruffled his detective's nearly-dried, fluffy dark curls. "When's mine?"

"September 8th," Sherlock replied immediately.

"Aw, you do love me after all," John grinned, giving him an indulgent kiss, feeling the brunette squirm and sigh delightfully underneath him.

"What did you buy me?" Sherlock gasped after John pulled back.

"A toy," John admitted.

"A _toy_?" Sherlock asked, his angular face crinkled deeply in confusion.

"Sex toy," John elaborated, flushing.

"…Oh," the detective replied quietly, eyes dilating, and then flickering away as he considered the possibilities. "…Why?"

"Because you're completely insatiable," his doctor told him, playfully running his palm over the damp bulge in Sherlock's underwear in demonstration.

The detective flinched, and then cleared his throat, his cheekbones stained a dusky, wet pink. He hesitated for a few moments, and then spoke. "Can we do something…new?"

"What were you thinking?" John soothed, palms easing under Sherlock's dressing gown and over his bare, flat stomach, which quivered visibly with the application of the doctor's knowledgeable hands.

Sherlock merely smirked, and poked his tongue out at his doctor.

John quirked his brow, almost ready to laugh and childishly poked his tongue out at his detective in playground-style retaliation.

"Grow up Sherlock, what do you want?" he said, giving in to a small chuckle.

Sherlock's features darkened in discomfiture, and he swallowed, his succulent pale throat bobbing. "No John, your…your tongue, in … …I saw it on the internet," he murmured, gesturing one long, pale hand towards his crotch.

John gasped, laughing awkwardly. "…I've…this would be the first time, I've…"

"I know…would you, though?" the detective asked uncertainly.

John leant down and gave Sherlock a brief, hard kiss on his cupid's-bow lips, a faint smile creasing his dark eyes.

"Okay."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was writhing, his lean legs trembling violently as they rested on his doctor's shoulders. He sat on the edge of the sofa, John kneeling on the floor between his jerking legs, holding them apart with considerable effort and teasing him with the tip of his tongue.

A ferocious, yet choked symphony of growls and hitched gasps had greeted John for the last ten minutes, but now he had to pull back, with a frustrated, wordless noise from his detective, who was stroking himself slowly and intensely, his large fist glistening with pre-come, his veins pulsing prominently.

"Sherl…you have to go faster…please," John implored. His jaw was aching, his shoulder was throbbing, his knees were killing him.

Sherlock whimpered in acquiescence, speeding up his violent masturbation till he sobbed, a slick, wet, totally frantic rhythm set up. His beautiful face crinkled into disrepair as he forced out a sharp, guttural yell, his breaths coming in frighteningly short, wheezy gusts.

"John inside now," he seethed, eyes squinching briefly as his heavy hips bucked unconsciously.

His doctor spread him once more, continuing to lick in and around him, before pushing his tongue as far inside Sherlock as he could.

He panicked briefly as Sherlock's strong, heavy hips bucked, his thigh muscles flexed and jerked, and a deep, throaty shriek sounded out somewhere above him, but he managed to hold on to his detective through his brief, violent climax. He nipped and kissed at Sherlock's inner thighs, massaging his backside and hips, as the detective came down with massive, heaving, noisy gasps, swallowing deeply every few seconds, all his muscles twitching with exertion.

" _Nnnggh_ ," Sherlock groaned, collapsing back onto the sofa, gasping wheezily, his bright, grey-green eyes staring at something beyond the ceiling. John grinned, getting up on sore legs and pecking him on the cheek.

"I'll be honest Sherl, that was knackering. No more of that for a while, okay?"

"Mmh."

"Least we tried it, though. Tea?"

"Nnh…"

John translated that accurately as a 'No,' and got up to go the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. "Now are you going to give me some time to watch Bargain Hunt?" he grinned playfully.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "…They won't find anything as nice as your ring," he announced groggily.

"I'm sure they won't, Sherl. See you in a bit," he murmured affectionately, before exiting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make me very, very happy :D  
> We’ll have some actual plot soon, I promise XP


	3. Chapter 3

The doctor had just finished cleaning his teeth when Sherlock’s croaky, strained voice sounded from the living room.

 “…John? Do you want a massage?”                            

John answered loudly from the bathroom as he tightened his dressing-gown ties, grimacing slightly and ruffling his short, ash-brown hair in the mirror, scrubbing his stubble. “You’re offering?”

“I wouldn’t mention it if I wasn’t offering,” Sherlock replied bluntly and voluminously from the front room. A violent exclamation soon followed.

 “ _OH_! _Fuck_ …”

“…Sherl?”

“……Keith just stood on my penis.”

John let out his high-pitched, unrestrained giggle and ventured out to see his detective. Sherlock had re-fastened his silky blue dressing-gown and squirmed a little on the sofa, nudging Keith from his lap and onto the floor. The detective discreetly adjusted himself before clearing his throat and vocalising.

“You need a massage. Your shoulder is clearly causing you discomfort after …after you…”

“After I stuck my tongue in your arse?”

Sherlock pulled a face that was half-grimace and half-smirk, his pale features crinkling delightfully, his sharp cheekbones stained a wonderful rosy pink.

“Your eloquence enthralls me,” Sherlock murmured, opening his arms and grinning when John approached him, accepting the hug. His doctor straddled his lap and smooched the corner of his mouth affectionately. The brunette cuddled him tightly, running strong white fingers across John’s scapulae and vertebrae.

“…It cost me twenty quid. It should be half decent,” Sherlock muttered, nuzzling John’s neck.

“…What did?” The doctor replied, bemused by his detective’s non-sequitur.

“The massage oil. Anniversary present,“  Sherlock uttered in a tone that suggested he was bored of anything that would cause him to make excessive use of his vocal chords. He purred pleasurably when John suckled at his throat enthusiastically, birthing a dark, red bruise with his lips and tongue.

“Oh… _God_ , _John_ ,” Sherlock groaned, grinding his hips in utter delight as John directed his thin lips to his sharp jaw. The detective gritted his teeth and shuddered out a harsh sigh when his doctor took to nibbling gently at the corner of his cupid bow lips, playfully pulling back when Sherlock moved to meet his mouth to instigate a kiss.

“For _God’s_ sake _,_ why don’t you _do_ me _,“_  Sherlock hissed, clenching his strong fingers around his doctors’ biceps.

“It’s fun to watch you suffer,” John replied, flashing his bright grin, before licking his thin lips tantalisingly.

“And people call _me_ a psychopath…” the detective groaned. “How much clearer do I have to make myself?”

“Trust me Sherlock, you are utterly transparent. I’m just choosing to be opaque.” The doctor delivered a few teasing, chaste pecks to the brunette’s plump lips, then paused as the sound of two unfamiliar cars pulling up in the street below, right outside 221B, alerted him to the real world. As he lifted his head, a stagnant, throat-coating London summer breeze pushed through the open window, bringing scents of deep-frying, exhaust fumes and the vague heaviness associated with an overcrowded, overbuilt city.

“John! Get on with it, put something inside me _now_ ,” Sherlock snapped impatiently, pumping his hips up against his doctor a few times in a not-so-subtle reminder of his irritable arousal. “It’s a taxi and a small van, ignore them.”

Something clicked in John’s head and he uttered, “Hang on, isn’t Mrs. Hudson back soon? Did you text her? Tell her the…news?” Their landlady had been away in Dorset, staying with family for ten days.

Sherlock sighed massively, and then checked his watch in casual hyperbole. “I have told her nothing. If everything went to plan, and her travel was uneventful and punctual, then she’ll be back in…six minutes. Ish. Although,” he paused, narrowing his eyes and listening carefully to the faint voices from Baker Street, “…It seems she is early.”

“Fuck, she’ll probably be straight up here,” John muttered, getting off of Sherlock’s lap and chucking a cushion in the direction of his detective’s crotch. “Don’t tell her anything yet. And don’t embarrass me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, obediently settling the Union Jack cushion over his visibly excited crotch. “I’ll do my best,” he murmured, winking fiendishly at his doctor.

“God help me, Sherl,” John muttered, as he heard light feet pattering up the stairs, and ensuring his own dressing gown was fastened appropriately. Sherlock let out one last faint chuckle as there was a sharp knock on their door and a loud proclamation.

“Boys? Boys! I just got back, and there was a package for you, I met the parcel man outside.”

“COME IN!” Sherlock yelled at an unnecessarily deafening volume, before curling himself up on the sofa and snuggling the cushion against his crotch, smirking indulgently. John tutted and double-checked his attire as their landlady opened and peeked through their door with a sweet grin.

“Hello boys!” she exclaimed cheerily, waving through the semi-open door.

“Good to see you Mrs. Hudson. How was it?” John asked politely.

“Oh, it was fine dears, fine. I’ve bought far too much food from the little farm shops there, I got you both a few things. I’ll pop by this evening with them. Oh, this is yours,” she smiled, handing John the innocuously-branded white, heavy parcel.

Sherlock expounded bluntly, smiling. “Thanks Mrs. H. That would be the dildo John bought me.”

“ _Sherlock_! I swear to god, I will strangle you.” John growled warningly, too far away from his detective to give him the reprimanding smack round the head that he deserved.

“Please, go ahead, you know very well that I enjoy a bit of erotic asphyxiation,” Sherlock responded candidly, looking at his fingernails with a complete and almost totally-believable air of distraction.

His doctor was deeply flushed, his turbulent blue eyes fixated on his detective with a dark look. It suggested that Sherlock’s shocking comment had cemented the fact that the brunette would pay dearly later.

“…I…” John turned, began and failed to elaborate on an apology to his long-suffering landlady, who stood, blushing but unoffended, and smiling.

“Play safe and try and keep the noise down, I’m going to take a nap. I’ll bring the stuff round later,” she said with a wink, before making her way downstairs, closing the door behind her.

“… _Sherlock_ … I am going to fuck you till you go cry, die or go blind,” John threatened in a quiet, intense murmur, dark blue eyes dangerously bright.

Sherlock sat up eagerly, grinning hopefully.

“…But not now,” John said coolly, his demeanour suddenly relaxing, a casual smirk on his thin lips. “Go make me some toast. And I’ll think about showing you this,” he promised, waving the plain, heavy white box in front of Sherlock before hiding it behind his back with a teasing grin and walking away to sit on his armchair, the toy on his lap. He picked up the newspaper and flicked through with an air of intense interest, ignoring his detective, who was sitting up on the sofa, looking uncertain and sweetly frustrated.

“…Toast?”

“Toast. Now,” John instructed distantly, not looking at Sherlock. He licked his left thumb and forefinger and turned the page of the paper, gaze intent.

“…But-“

“ _Now_ , Sherlock,” came the quiet command.

Obediently, the detective stood, dropping the Union Jack cushion on the sofa, adjusting his dressing-gown ties again, and wandering into the kitchen, before tentatively rummaging in the breadbin, and inspecting the various appliances in there with some trepidation and doubt.

 

* * *

Three minutes later, Sherlock emerged, with a plate that he pushed into John’s line of sight.

John glanced at the uncooked, buttered slice of bread for half a second. “That’s not toast, that’s bread.”

“Toast is bread.”

“Yes, but bread is not toast.”                       

“Ugh, details. Fine, burn your carbohydrates if you’re so fussy. It won’t do you any good.”

“…Sherlock…”

“Burning bread forms acrylamide, a compound that has been linked to cancer and nerve damage in humans. I don’t want it to be burnt.  I’d rather you didn’t die early. No more burnt bread for you.”

“…That’s sweet, really. Thankyou. But there’s no proof of it. Studies have been circumstantial at best.”

“How do you –“

“I’m a doctor, for God’s sakes, I know these things.”

“T-…” Sherlock stuttered, cleared his long, pale throat, and then tried again. “…Tell me more.”

“My medical opinions on acrylamide would turn you on?”

“No, you do,” Sherlock said simply, his grey-green eyes clear and ingenuous. “But your opinions on controversial science are certainly a boon.”

John grinned his wide, bright grin and stood, pushing aside the plate and taking his detective gently by the hips. “Alright, enough messing around. I’m ready to take you apart in the best way imaginable. You ready?”

Sherlock swallowed deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing tantalisingly. “Oh god, yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, something that occurred to me, and I want to see if anyone else noticed it/agrees, or whether I’m just sad and seeing everything through powerful slash goggles XD  
> In A Scandal in Belgravia, when the guy turns up and passes out in their living room, after Mrs Hudson finds thumbs in the fridge…is it not fairly obvious that she yells upstairs (i.e. to John’s room) “Boys, you’ve got another one!”  
> … What were they both doing up there? XD ;)
> 
> Comments make me happy :)  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry it’s been so long, guys, forgive me XD I’m a terrible person and don’t have any excuses…except maybe that I’ve been working on a few co-written fics with the brilliant starrysummernights, do check them out if you get the chance :D**

**~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~**

“Good,” John replied calmly, before abruptly untying his dressing-gown and shedding it noiselessly onto the dusty floor. Sherlock’s grey-green eyes flicked down immediately to his doctor’s bare body, and he didn’t bother with the propriety that dictated that he should flick his gaze back up to John’s face, and at least _pretend_ that his lascivious stare was accidental and regretted.

John grinned and snapped his fingers commandingly, and the brunette raised his eyes in obedience, pupils dilated, the aqua maelstrom of his irises temporarily burdened with a black lust.

“Follow me, there’s a good boy,” John uttered calmly, before picking up the new toy and striding unselfconsciously to their bedroom. There followed a substantial couple of actionless seconds, before Sherlock found his feet and hastened to accompany his doctor.

 Glancing behind him, Sherlock briefly hesitated before inelegantly running to the fridge, dumping a considerable amount of wet cat food into a little bowl for Keith with a voluminous clang of metal can upon plastic. He gave the inquisitive mammal a swift pat on the head, and then dashed into the bedroom, sequestering himself and his partner inside with a quick, metallic slam of the lock.

“Your altruism is quite the turn-on,” John murmured from his deeply-distracting, naked, spread-legged pose on the bed.

“He…he needs…if…” Sherlock fought to enunciate, his bright, grey-green eyes fixed irrevocably on the smaller mans’ body, the inundation of gorgeous visuals upon his retinas seemingly diverting all function from his other senses – _particularly_ , apparently, speech.

John smiled serenely, closed his eyes and rolled over, nuzzling into the pillow with a soft noise of appreciation, and flexing his naked back enticingly. Sherlock swallowed audibly and quickly shed his own dressing-gown.

“I’m waiting for my massage,” the doctor said calmly, and the detective frantically looked around the room before remembering that he had left the pricey oil in the living room. John heard him scramble with the door lock, and heavy feet pound distantly away before returning with even more fervour. The door slammed, and he giggled softly as he felt Sherlock throw his weight onto the bed beside him with absolutely zero grace. He giggled harder when the action apparently brought up a little bit of residual dust and caused Sherlock to let out a series of small, high-pitched sneezes that never sounded as if they belonged to the tall, broad-shouldered man in question.

Eyes crinkling with amusement, fighting down his chuckles, John settled his head into the pillow with a luxuriant, rumbling sigh that sounded enough like his vocals in bed when they made love especially slowly, to cause Sherlock to gulp thickly and hiss at the prompt, impatient throb of his own shaft.

“Still waiting,” John whispered tantalisingly, breaking Sherlock’s brief reverie, and the detective abruptly picked at the fiddly plastic wrap securing the lid of the bottle with short fingernails. Swearing quietly, he ended up tearing at the stiff sheath with his teeth, spitting out the remnants, and mounting John’s naked backside carefully.

“Cushy,” he commented cheekily, bouncing on John’s arse playfully.

John snorted. “Hush, you,” he grinned.

Sherlock nibbled on his plump bottom lip in concentration, as he flicked open the bottle and took a tentative sniff. It had a faint fragrance, sweet, but not at all overpowering.

The doctor adjusted himself a little better under Sherlock’s surprisingly heavy weight, and pulled in a grateful lungful of warm, dirty-tasting, comforting London air as a lazy breeze sluggishly managed its way through the open window into the stuffy bedroom.

John flinched abruptly as Sherlock was reading the ingredient list on the back of the bottle with clinical interest, and the taller man looked down inquisitively.

“Feels warm…” John said, and the brunette frowned in slight bemusement.

“I haven’t started yet…… _oh,”_ he murmured with audible embarrassment, after glancing down at where he was beginning to drip jewels of pre-come on the small of John’s back. “Um…sorry, maybe I have.”

“You what?”

“Um…one sec,” Sherlock muttered, smearing away the translucent liquid with his hand. “Sorry.”

Before John could reply, a generous slick of pleasantly-cool oil was drizzled upon his shoulder-blades and the length of his spine, and his detective wasted no time in getting to work.

With a deliciously wet, sharp inhale, John immediately melted bonelessly into the mattress. He hummed a little baritone laugh at the liquid squelch of the sweet-smelling oil on his bare skin under the ministrations of Sherlock’s cautious fingertips, before groaning deeply and distractingly.

“God, John, the sight of you,” Sherlock expressed suddenly and inadvertently, his voice sinfully deep and gravelly. John sometimes fancied that Sherlock’s larynx was comprised entirely of sandpaper, nectar and pheromones.

The vague pleasured noise that John responded with resulted in a full-body, powerful pulse that almost sent Sherlock over the edge, burdening him with the tell-tale signs of a tempting orgasm – the helpless jolt of his pale, muscular thighs, the clench of tight stomach muscles, the wonderful, if momentarily-frightening breathlessness of an imminent climax.

“…I honestly am sorry if I ejaculate over you. It’s not intentional,” Sherlock uttered awkwardly.

There was a sticky giggle, and John responded, snaking one hand back to smooth Sherlock’s damp hip as if he were placating an exhausted racehorse by rubbing its tired flanks.

“You’re forgiven in advance.  It’s all good. Please…feel free to continue.”

Sherlock licked cupid’s-bow lips, and smoothed his large hands over and around John’s scapulae, kneading with calloused thumbs, quietly delighting in the slick manipulation of blood-hot muscle and adipose beneath his administrations. Each firm sweep of his hands gifted him with a fresh, unconscious ejection of pleasured breath from his doctor, and he forcibly squinched his eyes shut in an attempt to distance himself from the effect the sounds were having on him.

It didn’t help in the slightest.

“…So…good,” John murmured, groggy with oxytocin, whimpering faintly as the detective strongly, intuitively, thumbed a few tough knots at the base of his neck. “ _God_ …”

Sherlock laughed uneasily, and cleared his throat. “If you don’t stop making noises, I’m going to come all over you. And I know for a fact that you don’t like having semen in your hair.”

John chuckled. “Think you could manage that far?”

“At this rate I could reach the Houses of Parliament.”

“…Did you know HP sauce was named after them?”

Sherlock paused, quirking an eyebrow. “…Is your idea of distracting me from orgasm offering factoids about British condiments?”

“Is it working?”

The brunette twitched a quick, bright, crinkly smile. “A bit, yes.”

“Anything to postpone your Gentlemen’s Relish.”

There was a tight, brilliant pause. “……That was awful, John. Truly awful.”

John was by now giggling steadily. “Get on with it, you berk,” he said fondly.

The brunette obeyed, a few crinkles around his pale eyes, circumnavigating his high cheekbones, betraying his dormant and honest amusement.

He didn’t avoid John’s scar, he never had - the milky keloid splash on the back of his left shoulder, which he knew John was silently grateful for. He _was_ careful with it, however. It was sensitive, but generally not in a way that caused the doctor pain. In fact, the patch of tender, creamy flesh was ideal when he wanted to tickle John into submission.

He slowly traversed down John’s back, massaging professionally either side of his spine, palpating his kidneys with a private little thrill at knowing exactly how they felt, before settling his slippery hands just at the crest of John’s buttocks, near to his own crotch. He ceased movement for a few seconds, breathing steadily, tasting the sweet oil, John’s perfect and indescribable essence, and grimy London summer in the still, hot air.

John mewed out a little confused noise, insistently bumping his bare backside against Sherlock. “Sherl? Why’d you stop? You were just getting to the good part,” and the dirty smirk was evident in his voice, even though his face was muffled by the warm pillow.

“Exactly,” Sherlock replied in a devilishly deep mumble.

 

**~_~_~_~_~_~_~**


	5. Chapter 5

 

The detective grinned shamelessly to himself, smoothing slick, heated fingers between John’s buttocks, nudging teasingly when his fingertips travelled gently over his entrance. Hissed moans greeted this action, and he sat back a little upon his doctor’s strong thighs, and indulgently spread him with long, pale hands.

Sherlock’s own cock pulsed irritably, demanding attention, especially when it was very aware that the eye-to-dick image that was being delivered, was of a very ripe, soft, dark receptacle that it would be criminal to ignore.

“Just…window shopping?” John uttered after ten seconds, a slight croak in his voice. He obligingly, impatiently adjusted his hips to accommodate his burgeoning erection against body-heated, musky bedclothes.

“Thought you couldn’t go again,” Sherlock leaned down, whispering, and even without volume, his voice was sinfully subsonic, and helped John’s hard-on work itself into enthusiastic, full engorgement.

“We won’t know until you start fingering me,” John said bluntly, and they both laughed sweetly, breathily.

The detective didn’t reply, just pushed firm, kneading thumbs into John’s buttocks, eyeing the glistening hills of flesh with undisguised want. Knowing Sherlock’s weakness for his own vocality during sex, John eased out a choked, lengthy sob of need.

He started slightly when the brunette pulled away, breathing heavily. Twisting his head round awkwardly, he sae Sherlock gripping himself tight, jaw clenched determinedly, eyes distant as he fought to ground himself and postpone his threatening climax.

“Sorry,” John uttered quietly, though he was unable to prevent a smug grin from distorting his empathy.

“You are a terrible man, John,” Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes and swallowing a few times, calming himself as best he could.

“By ‘terrible,’ I assume you mean, ‘brilliant and irresistible,” John whispered coarsely against the pillow. His voice deepened exponentially as he continued to soothe the detective, who was clearly on edge. John didn’t need to hear his stuttered, self-conscious breaths or see the bone-white knuckles tighten sharply around a wet, darkened shaft. He could read it like braille in every telling twitch of Sherlock’s firm thigh muscles, a delicious personal code that he could translate down to the minutest, silent utterance of pleasure.

“You can come if you like, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

“…I might……I might need to,” Sherlock admitted quietly, his high cheekbones starkly and swiftly staining a nervous, rosy blush.

“…Can you massage me a bit more? Felt amazing,” John beseeched politely, voice quiet.

Sherlock nodded invisibly with relief at being given clear instructions, and replaced his slick, slightly-trembly hands upon John’s buttocks, rising to kneel above his doctor, and lean his weight repeatedly and firmly upon his palms, pushing deeply, penetratively, into the muscles of John’s backside in an impressively authentic Thai massage, avoiding putting pressure directly upon his spine.

He continued for nearly two minutes in relative silence, before the smaller man’s stifled snuffles of laughter became audible.

“John?” Sherlock queried uncertainly, easing back his hands and hovering awkwardly.

“It’s fine, really. But this massage was meant to be for my sore shoulders, not my sore arse,” John chuckled, finally giving in to an addictive, contagious loud giggle. Sherlock offered a discomfited, but fond, ‘you’re-being-unnecessarily-crude-and-ungrateful-so-you’re-lucky-I –love-you’ Look at the back of his partner’s ash-brown head.

 The detective pulled in a deep, dehydrated inhale tasting of the lazy heat and furious frenetic buzz of early-evening in Baker Street, before moving his talented hands back upward to knead skilfully up and around John’s shoulder blades, his trapezius muscles, and his upper arms.

When Sherlock dripped once more onto the doctor’s lower back, he didn’t bother to smear it away, just moved his owns hips forward briefly to grind into his own lukewarm wetness, leaning down quickly to nip hard at the tender, thin skin behind John’s ear with imperfect, sharp teeth, before kissing it soothingly.

He dripped again at the unrestrained, breathy groan that rewarded him; he quickly palmed himself with one hand to ease the impatient ache of his cock. Planting his hands once more upon John’s scapulae, thumbing them a little too deeply, and rocking himself against the frictionless, oily plumpness of John’s buttocks, he spoke up with a torn, demanding growl.

 “You’d better be ready, John.”

“Bring it,” John challenged, gripping his pillow and bracing himself resolutely.

 


End file.
